The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

Stoddard does. But he won’t divulge it. He says she wishes to remain anonymous and he’s under no legal obligation to reveal it at the moment. All I know is that she may be living in Newport under a married name.”
    Eddie frowned, remained silent for a minute. “Let me see what I can find out.”
    I thanked Eddie and slid behind the wheel of my Saturn. Seymour climbed in beside me. I noticed Eddie didn’t go back to his own car until we drove away. And yes, even though it made Seymour crazy, I braked the car every ten yards for the first half mile, just to be on the safe side.
    I drove slowly after that, turning onto Dogwood from Larchmont. We didn’t say a word as we rolled under the shade trees, along the stone wall, and past the gates of the “Old Farm.” Finally, we left the site of the town’s graveyard and continued on the road to Cranberry.
    I drove to the far end, just past the business district, and turned onto a long drive lined with century-old weeping willows. The Finches’ bed-and-breakfast stood at the end, its brick chimneys, bay windows, shingle-covered gables, and corner turret making for a much cheerier picture than the Todd mansion—to my relief.
    Fiona and Barney had researched their Queen Anne thoroughly, even repainting the house in its original high-Victorian colors: reddish-brown on the main body’s clapboards, and a combination of olive green and old gold on the moldings and the spindlelike ornaments that served as a porch railing.
    There were four floors of rooms, each with its own fireplace and most with breathtaking views of Quindicott Pond, a good-sized body of saltwater fed by a narrow, streamlike inlet that raced in and out with the nearby Atlantic’s tides.
    A nature trail circled the pond, stretched into the backwoods, and branched off to paths that led all the way to the shoreline. The inn rented bicycles for the trail and rowboats for the pond, which was usually pretty well stocked with fish. A dozen or so local fisherman even docked small boats here and used the inlet to reach the open ocean.
    The inn’s French restaurant was housed in a separate, smaller building, which featured a large dining room partially built right over the pond. Chez Finch was a little too pricey for most of the town’s residents, but the raves from papers in Providence and Newport were bringing in plenty of foodie tourists with deep pockets.
    As I climbed out of my car, the June sun felt warm on my face. Seymour joined me and we walked across the small parking lot, feeling the breeze off the pond—brisk and fresh with the tang of brine. We ascended the Queen Anne’s six long steps, moved across the wide, wraparound porch, and through the open stained-glass doors.
    Fiona noticed us strolling past her palm trees in her dark-paneled entranceway and waved us over to the inn’s hospitality table. “Morning, you two! Care for a snack?” She was just transfering the last breakfast pastries from the white bakery box to a decorative plate. “I stopped by Cooper’s after church.”
    Without a word, Seymour dropped his suitcase and stuffed a hot glazed circle of fried dough into his maw. “Thannns, Finnna,” he mumbled between chews.
    Unfortunately, my stomach wasn’t up for Milner Logan’s lighter-than-air doughnuts, mouthwatering maple-glazed banana muffins, or any of the delicious-looking fare from Cooper Family Bakery. Coffee was about all I could handle. So I moved to the urn on the table and helped myself.
    Have two, baby, the ghost advised. Between last night’s drinking and your funhouse scares, I’m surprised you’re still walking upright.
    “Me, too,” I whispered, stifling a yawn.
    “Now, tell me exactly what this is all about,” Fiona said, pointing to Seymour’s suitcase.
    “I told you over the phone. I need a place to stay for a little while,” Seymour said, his thick fingers selecting an apple turnover even before he’d swallowed the last of the doughnut.
    “Seymour and I had an experience last night,” I said quietly. “It started in the bedroom.”
    Fiona’s eyebrow arched. “You and Seymour?”
    I could already hear the ghost laughing.
    “ Listen, Fiona. Todd Mansion really is haunted.” I pulled out my cell phone and showed her the digital photo of the old portrait. “Seymour and I saw the ghost of this man. Miss Todd must have seen him, too. That’s what scared her to death.”
    Fiona’s jaw dropped as I went through the entire tale, including the